


as the lily among thorns, so is my love

by Stregatrek



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: BJ+Charles friendship, BJ+Hawkeye+Charles friendship, Bi!Donna, Canon-Typical Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Charles has some wrong opinions about Impressionism but is forgiven because he's pretty, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Internalized Acephobia, Longing and pining is where it's at lads, Not Actually Unrequited Love, ace!charles, mentions of BJ/Hawkeye/Peggy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26351974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stregatrek/pseuds/Stregatrek
Summary: Charles dreams of Donna, of her hands, her smile. It shouldn’t be so easy to recall her littlest gestures, but he can’t forget them. At least these dreams are quiet, soft. Dreaming of Donna Marie Parker is the antithesis of his usual dreams- and despite the feeling in his chest that is somehow both heavy and bright when he wakes, he can’t but be grateful for the reprieve. He can still smell cherry blossoms of Tokyo, but then he coughs and realizes that’s only because they’ve begun to fill up his lungs.
Relationships: Donna Marie Parker/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Stay with me, for I am sick of love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onekisstotakewithme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekisstotakewithme/gifts).



It’s a slow round in OR- only three patients, scouts unlucky enough to find what they were looking for; enemy fire. Potter hasn’t joined the other three surgeons, in his office with the company clerk to find out who the scouts belong to. Charles is hunched over a rib spreader, working as quickly as he can, feeling like it still isn’t fast enough, and Pierce is warbling _Too Young_ off-key. “Please, Pierce, spare us,”

“I thought this was one of his better performances,” Hunnicutt counters lightly.

“Oh, well, if that’s prevailing opinion, I’ll give an encore. No need for applause, keep those hands where they are,” Hawkeye clears his throat and begins again.

Charles rolls his eyes, bending closer to his patient. The motion dislodges something, and he coughs three or four times, trying to dispel the itching in his lungs, turning reflexively to keep from coughing directly onto the patient.

Pierce calls over, “ _Again_ , Charles? First you keep us up all night, now in surgery? Sure you’re not coming down with something?”

“I’m certain, _thank_ you for your concern,” working even faster now, lost time nipping at his heels.

“I’d feel better if you let one of us check it out,”

He sighs. “There is _no_ need for that,”

“How about you let me be chief surgeon. You know, because I am, and everything. Seems only fair.”

BJ chuckles. “I’ll do it, if you can take post-op, Hawk,”

“Well, you’re voluntarily drawing the short straw, even though he’s one tall order,”

“Side of fries,”

“Gentlemen,” Charles almost wishes Potter were there, just to call for quiet.

“Close.” BJ says, gloves up. “Anybody need a hand?”

Hawkeye’s eyebrows wag above his mask. “No thanks, I already have two. But if your offer is going to be good for later,”

“Ah, coupon expires at the doors of OR,”

“Just my luck, a coupon and I have to tell him to coup-off,”

BJ groans. “That one was terrible, Hawk,” he’s wandered over to Charles’ table. “Need a hand?”

“No, thank you Hunnicutt, if I require an intern I shall inquire after students seeking residencies.”

“Nobody wants to take up residence here, Charles, except the North Koreans. Though if their surgical precision is anything like their aim, I’m not sure you want one of them either. There were more bullets outside that kid’s chest than tea in China- I’m not sure they knew they could shoot at the vital areas.”

If he weren’t looking at far worse, if he hadn’t seen the things he’d seen, Charles might have winced at the mental image. Still, he gets his patient closed. He’ll check in as soon as this ridiculous ‘check up’ with Hunnicutt is completed- the boy should be monitored for fever. The two surgeons step into the scrub room, and Charles manages to avoid Hunnicutt’s gaze for about ten seconds.

“So, are you going to make this easy, or do I have to bribe you with candy when we’re done.”

“Pardon?”

“Candy. You know. Go to the doctor, get a lollipop. Thought you had pediatric experience.”

Charles shrugs. “I suppose I am not in the habit of bribing my patients.”

“Too bad for your patients. Now, come on, let’s start from the top. How long have you had that cough?”

“Only a few days,” Charles lies dismissively. It had been getting worse- he had wondered when the point would come when he could no longer hide what was happening to him. Thinking about it makes him shiver, makes him think of taking an ambulance and driving up to an aid station. At least Hunnicutt was doing this, rather than Pierce. Pierce with the scent of a mystery was like a dog with a bone. In another life, the man would have made a wonderful private investigator. In fact, he reminded Charles occasionally of a man his father had hired to look into political affairs some time back. Equally persistent in the face of a mystery. In this case, however, that persistence was an unwelcome trait.

The makeshift wooden room is small, and Hunnicutt is circling closer. “I’m gonna listen to your lungs.”

“I assure you, Hunnicutt, that is unnecessary. It is simply the dust of Korea- I am surprised it hasn’t sunk in sooner. You may dispense with your facade of concern.” Charles knows backing away would make the other physician suspicious, but he crosses his arms, voice getting louder, telegraphing _keep your stethoscope to yourself_.

BJ sighs. “Come on, Winchester, don’t be stubborn. If you’re coming down with something we need you out of OR until you feel better. No point getting worn down and making the rest of us sick.” Rolling his eyes, Charles doesn’t have time to protest again before Hunnicutt’s stethoscope is against his skin, and the Californian is frowning. “ _That_ does not sound like dust,”

“Hm,”

Moving the instrument, BJ looks at him, eyes wide. “I’ve never listened to your lungs before, Charles, but if they always sound like that you should be out on a 4F _yesterday_.”

“Ah, as much as I would love to provoke Corporal Klinger’s jealousy, that won’t be necessary.” He doesn’t know what he would do, in Boston, for a month. Fend off Honoria’s aggressive caretaking and avoid their parents. Though, it would be nice to see the harbor. Perhaps take his sister to the symphony. Something in the back of his mind murmurs _one last time_ , and he sighs, having been down this road over and over, late at night. Arching his eyebrows to keep his expression as aloof as possible in the hopes that if he looks it he might feel it, Charles glares down his nose at Hunnicutt. Frustrating that he only has an inch or two on the other man. How, precisely, did the 4077 collect three surgeons over six feet in height? It made intimidating the other two much more challenging. “You may set your mind at ease, I do not require your services, nor a discharge.”

“Charles,” BJ takes the stethoscope out of his ears, and Charles tries to step around him. Hunnicutt stops him from moving with a hand on his shoulder. “Why do I get the feeling that you know why your lungs sound like they’re working harder than an ant pushing a tank?”

“That would be because _I_ am the thoracic expert, Hunnicutt, please, your concern is not only unappreciated, it is unnecessary. I know precisely what is wrong and what is causing it. Allow me to avoid the indignity of a spectacle.”

“No,” BJ crosses his arms, still blocking the exit. “Tell me what it is, Charles, or I’ll go get Hawkeye for a second opinion. Colonel Potter, too, if we have to hold you down and force it out of you. I’ve never heard lungs sound like that and still be inside someone who can stand.”

Winchester’s fist clenches. “Hunnicutt, I will _not_ be told my own ailment by a pair of malpractice suits waiting to happen, and your threats only reinforce that position.”

“Couldn’t get us in the suits,” BJ’s voice is easy. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, it’s casual Friday every day chez Korea.”

Charles’ teeth are gritted, and it’s clear that he’s winding up for a fight when he starts to cough again. He doubles over the scrub sink, one hand braced on the edge, the other holding a handkerchief to his mouth. BJ almost rolls his eyes when he sees that it’s monogrammed, but he’s busy being worried, because the deep wetness of the cough is not of the sort that comes from breathing in dirt. “Ah,” Major Winchester gasps as the fit passes, and BJ starts forward, picking a white petal the size of his pinky nail out of the sink.

He stares at Charles. “Call me crazy, but I think you just spit out a petal. Food around here get that bad? Or do you always eat roses in Boston?”

With a defeated sigh, Charles takes the petal from BJ’s gloved palm. “Hunnicutt, do you know what hanahaki syndrome is?” His voice is so much quieter than he wants it to be.

“Is that the technical term for when people start eating roses?”

“No,” Charles sighs once more, carrying the petal to the medical waste bin. Shaking two more out of his handkerchief. BJ is disconcerted to see that there are spots of blood on the cloth, and suddenly the wooden walls feel very close. “It is a very rare and generally fatal disorder of the lungs. Now, there is no cure, and I would _appreciate_ your discretion.”

BJ stares at him, silence heavy between them. “Did you just tell me you’re _dying_? Charles, I can’t keep that to myself. Potter-”

“ _Please_ , Hunnicutt. At least for the moment. The disease is in its initial stages. Please give me- just a little while longer. I- I haven’t yet told Honoria.”

Charles’ hands are braced on the sink, his head lowered, and the unexpected vulnerability from a man BJ and Hawkeye often joked had a four-chambered bank account where a heart should be gives the California doctor pause. “Alright, look,” he sighs, pacing behind Charles. “I won’t tell Potter yet. But you have to let me try to help you. Tell me more about what this is. Let me put in some calls to Tokyo.”

“Hunnicutt-”

“That’s my price.” BJ says sternly. “ _You_ know how bribes work, Charles, you can have my silence- until you tell your sister- but you have to accept my help, too.”

Winchester looks up at him, straightening slowly. “Very well. But your silence must be absolute- _including_ Pierce.”

“Fine,” BJ stipulates. “Listen, how fast does this move? If you’re going to cough up a rose garden mid-surgery-”

“Please,” Charles holds up a hand with a wince, forestalling. “It is quite different case by case. I myself have only treated one other case- and that was fatal in just under two months. I should say I have approximately one month remaining myself.”

BJ still doesn’t quite understand. He drags a hand over his face. “Okay. Okay.” His voice is too fast, and he takes a deep breath. “I’ll give you a week- tell your sister, tell Potter unless you want me to do it for you. In the meantime, I need more information. I understand if you can’t give it to me right now- but do you have a journal, or anything?”

“I have an article. Perhaps an old textbook page or notes transcribed somewhere… Hunnicutt, you are being very _decent_ about this.”

“Did you think I _wouldn’t_ be? Christ, Charles, you’re telling me you’re dying- and I don’t even know of what. Of course I want to help you.”

“Oh.”

BJ sighs. “I’m gonna make a trip through post-op. Go find me your article, will you?”

Charles sighs in return. “Very well, Hunnicutt,”

BJ leaves; Hawkeye’s on post-op, but there are a couple quick checks he wants to make. He wishes he could tell his friend what he just learned. Sitting on his hands has never been a skill of BJ Hunnicutt’s, and waiting even a week seems like waiting too long.

“Hello, soldier.” Hawkeye grins up at him, sitting on the foot of a wounded soldier’s bed. "So, spill, what's wrong with Winchester? Get his foot stuck in his mouth last time he put it in there, inhale some of that army boot smell?" He’s smirking, and it makes BJ's stomach swoop in an uncomfortable kind of way.

He shakes his head. "Sorry, Hawk, doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Come on, Beej, I'm a doctor, he tries my patience," Hawkeye cracks, but when he sees that BJ doesn't smile he stands up, expression falling into serious lines. "That bad?"

"I can't say," BJ says, because it's true, because he needs to write letters to every physician in Tokyo, and maybe some stateside, if he can think of anyone who knows more about thoracic problems than the patient himself. “Confidential, remember?” He tries to smile, brush it off. “I’m gonna head to the swamp- join me for a drink when Potter takes over?”

“Your place or mine?”

“They’re the same place, Hawk,”

“It’s the little things, you know,” Hawk says, half to the next soldier in the ward. “Getting to come home at the end of a long war’s day. Or the end of a long day’s war? Finding your bunkie in your socks.”

BJ claps him on the shoulder. “See you in your cups, soldier,”

“Don’t make drinking jokes, BJ, they’re hard to swallow,”

“Just like your gin.”

“ _Our_ gin,” Hawkeye grins, stethoscope in as he looks over the patient. “How you feeling?” His voice changes as he starts talking to the boy in the bed rather than to BJ.

BJ turns to leave.

* 

Pouring himself another drink, Charles sits back down on his cot with one hand pressed to his chest, massaging almost idly, rereading the letter he _did_ get from Donna. _Dear Chuck,_ it starts, and that’s as far as he’s made it. Not that he hasn’t already committed the entire thing to memory- it isn’t long, but it is joyful in a way that so little here is. Reading the letter makes him miss her more, and he tries to picture her, how she must have looked when she was writing it. He imagines her smiling to herself at the little jokes, perhaps even looking between the letter he had sent her and this one as she penned her reply. That was how he wrote his answer to this letter- both answers. Two separate letters, and he wonders if it was the first that insulted her or the second, whether they arrived at the same time, which one made her decide that he wasn’t worth her attention even as a correspondent. He’d been terrified at first that something may have happened to her. An old colleague from Tokyo General had checked on her for him, found her as safe as anyone was in this particular “police action.” So he has that, at least, the knowledge that she is safe. The ability to picture her walking beneath the cherry blossoms of Tokyo. Holding her letter makes his hands ache to hold her, to reach out across the distance of two countries, but even if she was in the same room he’s not sure he’d be able to extend his hand to her. He worries she wouldn’t take it. It’s irrational, he knows this, ridiculous and unfathomable and he’s certain a Winchester has never been in love like this, like a storybook, like a doomed Russian fairytale. Which is why, beneath the letter, there’s a blank sheet of paper. _Dear Honoria,_ he’s written across the top, and that’s as far as he’s made it.

Having answered Donna not once but twice, and having received no reply, there is no dignified and respectful option left to him. So he is going to shout to a god he doesn’t believe in about the unfairness of it all, the utter despondency of war, and he is going to drink until he knows what to say to his sister. _I am dying, and I wasn’t even shot. I feel I am losing the lifeblood from my heart, and I have never seen a battle but I have seen far too much of the aftermath_.

“Charles?” BJ’s voice is soft as he enters the tent. “You know there aren’t answers in there, right?”

“Are you referring to the letter or the bottle?” Charles sighs, tipping his head back without looking at Hunnicutt.

“Either.” His roommate sits down. “You didn’t tell me this thing was caused by _love_.”

Charles winces. “Veeery good, Hunnicutt, did you actually manage to read the whole article, or did you have to skim for the bolded text?”

BJ ignores the bait. “It’s Donna, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

BJ crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame. “I don’t know about Harvard, but _my_ alma mater doesn’t give out degrees for playing dumb. After she left it was Donna this, Donna that; I caught you staring at one of those wild pictures with just her back in it.”

Doing anything involving fine motor control when one has single-handedly imbibed the majority of a bottle of cognac is a tricky business, but Charles manages to trace his first finger over the way she writes his name. Wrote his name. “Yes,” he acknowledges. “Donna.”

Blowing his breath out in a sigh that rivaled the gusty nor’ easterlies Charles knew and loved, BJ says, “Look, I know we haven’t been… exactly close. But if you love Donna enough to grow her roses in your own lungs, you ought to get a chance with her. Hell, if it feels anything like the way I feel about Peggy-”

Blinking perhaps harder than typically necessary, Charles tries to get his vision to focus. For some reason, _growing roses in your lungs_ has him imagining a Victorian hothouse, a secret meeting place, taking Donna by the elbows in a garden as verdant as her soul and kissing her like he'd been trading furtive glances with her all evening. “ _Most_ kind of you, Hunnicutt,” he can hear his own accent getting thicker, drunk and defensive. “But your conjugal bliss is not a topic which interests me, and I would thank you to leave off your comparisons. _You_ have never felt like this,” he proves his point with an unexpected coughing fit, setting his glass down as he doubles over, handkerchief pressed to his mouth. Only one small petal falls from his lips, and he stares at it a moment before lifting his glass in a mock-toast to the other surgeon and draining it.

He swallows, and immediately begins coughing again, spitting out a cherry blossom angrily. “This is intolerable.”

“Not to mention unsustainable,” BJ put in, frowning. “That’s getting worse. We’re going to have to tell the Colonel soon, you know.

Charles holds up the mostly-blank sheet of paper. “This is my letter to Honoria.” He looks at it, smile tiny and sad. “What do you suggest I tell her? ‘My dear sister, try to let our parents blame themselves only the appropriate amount for abandoning me in this fetid place, and if you don’t like the mausoleum they construct for me please feel free to vandalize it. Your _dying brother_ , Charles,’” and he thinks the phrase dying brother three times over, until it isn’t him anymore, and that’s almost worse. How dare he leave Honoria alone this way?

“Probably re-work that a little,” BJ says, trying for a smile of his own. “How about you just tell her the facts? And that you love her.”

Looking between the two letters in his lap, Charles presses a hand over his eyes.

“Okay,” BJ sighs. “I’m sorry. I can’t- I can’t imagine trying to write a letter like this, to anyone, but especially not a sibling.”

Reaching for the bottle and pouring himself another measure, Winchester slurs, “Are you a brother, Hunnicutt?”

“No,”

“Hm.” Charles has something on the tip of his tongue about an elder sibling twice over, and a failure as often, but he swallows it with another sip of cognac. “There is very little I would not do for Honoria. I fear that, when I am gone…”

“Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ve just started my research, you’re the best thoracic surgeon we have, and between us-”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Yes, between the two of us, we’ll discover in the next three weeks or thereabouts a cure that has been unknown for the entire course of human history. That seems like a very attainable goal, Hunnicutt,”

“What, you’re just going to give up?”

“It is not _giving up_ to attempt to make peace with the inevitable,”

BJ scoffs. “Bullshit. If there’s anyone I know who’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of this mortal coil, I would have expected it to be you.”

With a drunken huff, Charles carefully sets the papers on his desk. “Perhaps. If the cause were not so undignified.”

“ _Undignified_? Are you just angry that you’re in love? Charles-” BJ scrubs his hands over his face again. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard all war, and I spend all my time with Hawkeye.”

“No need to insult me, Hunnicutt,” the Major lays back on his cot, not bothering to get undressed. The tent is spinning. “I have done what I can- I have written to her, I have- I have _told_ her. And she did not reply. I would be a fool to not be able to hear what is being said in that particular silence.”

BJ’s voice is soft when he says Major Winchester’s name, but he’s answered by snoring. The Californian shakes his head. “All right, Chuck. Sleep well.” He’ll tell Hawkeye the cough is just the dirt- nothing’s flowering at the moment, so claiming it’s allergies won’t hold up. But that’ll give Charles another day or two to figure out what to say to Honoria. And then they can decide how to tell Potter, together.

Charles dreams of Donna, of her hands, her smile. It shouldn’t be so easy to recall her littlest gestures, but he can’t forget them. At least these dreams are quiet, soft. Dreaming of Donna Marie Parker is the antithesis of his usual dreams- and despite the feeling in his chest that is somehow both heavy and bright when he wakes, he can’t but be grateful for the reprieve. He can still smell cherry blossoms of Tokyo, but then he coughs and realizes that’s only because they’ve begun to fill up his lungs.

*

“Finally,” Hawkeye flops onto his cot. “OR’s empty, camp’s quiet, and I am going to drink like I’m a fish. BJ, care to join?”

Shaking his head, Hunnicutt says, “You’re on your own in that pond, Hawk, sorry. I wanna write a couple letters.”

Charles sighs heavily, that sound of annoyance which consistently primes Hawkeye’s barbed comments. “Hunnicutt, you are wasting your time,”

“Because there’s so much else to do here,” Hawkeye rolls his eyes as he gets himself a martini. “Hey, Beej, set that pen and paper down, let’s go look at dirt. Or, no, I know- stop writing to your wife and kid who you love and we’ll go watch Igor cream corn.”

BJ winces. “Stop reminding me.”

Hawkeye flops back on his cot. “You know what I could really go for, now that I’ve said it? Corn on pizza. You ever had corn on pizza? I dunno where I picked it up, can’t even remember if I’ve ever really done it, it’s just- corn on pizza,”

“Pierce,” Charles’ voice is a warning, and he turns up the dial on his record player.

Looking over at BJ, Hawk rolls his eyes, gesturing with his glass as if to say, ‘can you believe him?’ Hunnicutt tries for a sympathetic expression, most of his attention focused on writing to one of the specialists at Tokyo General. After a moment where the only thing to be heard in the tent were the violin strains of Verdi, Hawkeye begins loudly imitating the music, throwing in a cymbal crash. “PIERCE!”

“WINCHESTER!”

Starting to his feet, Charles stops, bracing himself on the door frame as he coughs. BJ looks up in alarm as he hears the Major choke.

“Is it just me or is he getting even more insufferable?” Hawk asks BJ as Charles storms out of the tent, handkerchief pressed to his mouth.

“Look,” BJ sighs. “Lay off him for a while.”

“Oh, is his bad mood contagious? Something going around I need to be careful not to catch? Like that cough- sounded worse to me. You sure it’s just the dirt, Beej?”

BJ doesn’t know what to tell him, so he just shrugs. “That’s what it seems like. I’ll keep an eye on it though.”

“Hm, yeah,” Hawkeye is looking after Winchester as he sips his first martini, but it isn’t long after that that the speakers crackle to life, and they spend their afternoon on a patrol that patrolled right across a road paved with landmines. Winchester’s cough gets on Potter’s nerves, and BJ knows the Boston surgeon can’t do anything about it, but he watches the taller man’s shoulders rise as he gets his hackles up. Shouting across patients because he’s out of patience is not out of the ordinary for Charles, but BJ finds himself wondering if it’s always sounded so defensive. Was he not listening? “Winchester,” He says, maybe gentler than he ever has. “Lemme check out that cough afterward.”

“Fine,” Charles snaps back, the ‘i’ slightly drawn out.

“What are you, best friends now?” Hawkeye sounds put-out, and BJ would smile at the pettiness if he weren’t elbow-deep in the unmentionable. “What does he have that I don’t?”

Bending over his patient, Charles says, “Chronologically, alphabetically, or by cash value?”

“Oh, ha-ha,” Hawkeye tosses shrapnel into a collection pan. “You better leave the wit to me, Charles, charm too. Come on, Beej, what do you suddenly see in him?”

Making harried eye contact with Charles across the room, BJ gives a dramatic sigh. “Oh, Hawk, come on, haven’t you ever looked at those Boston blue eyes?”

Hawk scoffs. “Oh, yeah, come along with that Boston blue blood.” Another piece of shrapnel lands in the collection pan. "And my eyes were blue first."

“You boys can play colors and numbers later,” Potter barks at the OR. “I don’t care who does it, but _someone_ better fix that cough of Winchester’s.”

“I’ll take care of it, Colonel,” BJ promises.

“Good,” Margaret mutters, at his side. “We can hear it all the way in the nurses’ tent. It’s worse than his snoring.”

BJ winces.

Surgery goes on and on, and every time Winchester coughs BJ’s teeth get more on edge. He hates that there’s nothing he can do, hates that he’s the only one who knows. Margaret notices his tension, stripping off his gloves after his final patient and asking, “Need an assistant for your check-up with the Major? He doesn’t seem like he’s in much of a cooperative mood.”

“Uh- no thanks, Margaret, but if you hear me screaming,”

She laughs at that, tiredly. “All right. I’ll be in post-op. Keep your fingers away from his teeth; remember what he did to that dentist,”

BJ smiles, the muscles in his face barely managing it. “Will do,” he promises Margaret. This time, he takes Charles back to the Swamp, the two of them walking silently, shoulder to shoulder in a way they so rarely are. “Listen. It’s getting a lot worse, real quick. I’m sure you know that better than I do- so we need to make a better plan than ‘wait and see.’ Pretty soon you won’t be much good in OR; Potter… needs to request a replacement.”

With a heavy sigh, Winchester lowers himself to his cot. “I… You’re correct, of course. Frustrating how often you plain and decent types manage that.”

“If it makes you feel better, I hate it when you refined and dignified types manage it, too.” BJ sets a hand on his shoulder cautiously. “Is there _anything_ else we can do?”

Charles shakes his head. “No, there is not. I- I don’t even know what to say to Honoria. Perhaps I ought to call. Or telegram.”

“I’m sure Potter would let you call. Hell, he’d sign a 4F. Maybe you should go home.”

It’s quiet, but BJ hears a sharp catch of breath as Major Winchester says, “I… would be even further from Tokyo, in that case. Boston is- the other side of the world.”

“Oh, Charles.” BJ turns and sinks onto his cot. “That’s… you wouldn’t have to go home, if you got out of here. You could go to Tokyo. See her.”

“I doubt I’d be welcome.”

BJ can’t think of anything to say to that. He guesses he’d feel the same way, if Peggy just stopped writing him back. But then, maybe he’d want to be home even more, to know why she’d stopped. He’d probably try to swim the Pacific, just to show up on the beaches of California and beg her for a reason. “Why not try? I… it isn’t like you have a lot to lose,”

“Save for the last shred of my dignity.”

“Well, you know what they say, you can’t take it with you.” BJ tries to make his voice gentle. He isn’t sure he succeeds. “Don’t be a martyr.”

Winchester sighs, reaching for a newspaper and turning on his light. _Don’t be a martyr_. He imagines a crown of thorns around his heart, home-grown just next door, the roses in his lungs. “Hunnicutt, I am going to read this paper, and I would appreciate hearing no more of this tonight.”

“Charles, you can’t just shut _down_ ,” BJ protests, and the door to the Swamp bangs open to admit their third roommate, in full swing.

Hawkeye is animated, still halfway in his scrubs, and paces between them. "Lookit," Pierce holds up a single bloody petal between gloved fingers, waving it with all the enthusiasm he’s never summoned for waving a flag. "Somebody's walking around with a case of planter-fasciitis,"

"Pierce," Winchester rumbles, raising his paper over his face. "If I never heard another word about your sexual proclivities and the apparent involvement of feet, I will still know too much."

Hawkeye rolls his eyes, using his ungloved hand to push the paper down, holding the petal out. "Planter. Planter! Flower jokes, Charles, jesus,"

The Major's face goes ashen, then turns red. "Where... did you find that, Pierce?"

"By the medical waste bin. Must've fallen out or something, I don't know- what's important is that either the Korean countryside has taken to growing some kind of cursed apple blossom or someone's walking around with hanahaki, and since I haven't heard a hana nor haki about it means they aren't getting appropriate treatment," Hawkeye is frowning now. "Who do you think it is? Because this is serious, could even be fatal. You don't think it's one of the nurses?"

"If you mean to imply that a nurse is in love with you to the point of developing hanahaki-"

"You _know_ what causes hanahaki?"

"Wait, wait, _you_ know what hanahaki is?" BJ interrupts as Charles raises his chin defensively, doubtlessly about to condescend within an inch of his life.

Hawkeye turns to look at his friend. "Sure I do. Dad had it. Haven't I ever told you that story?"

"No," BJ says at the same time Charles asks,

" _Had_? Pierce, did I hear a past-tense?"

Hawkeye holds his hands up, the petal still limp in one. "Don't everyone start caring about my life at once, now," he says. "But yeah, over my mom, in college. He did a bunch of research, asked all these questions- doctor with a fatal disease, can you blame him for being excited? And near as he knows, there's no cure except that good ol' conventional wisdom- the object of your, ah, affections, loves you too."

Charles sits back, hand covering his eyes.

"Hey," BJ says softly.

"You two know who it is," Hawkeye looks between them. "Hey, why didn't you come to me sooner? We're a team," hands on his hips, emphasizing _team_ , and BJ agrees- but Hawk knows now.

Rallying, Winchester reaches out. "May I have that?"

Hawkeye holds the petal out of reach. "Glove up, my god, first you touch your nose, now this, don’t they teach the word _communicable_ at Harvard?"

"Pierce, you imbecile, it's my blood, I'm hardly going to contract any disease. Certainly not one worse than I already have." The second sentence is soft, and silence reigns in the tent.

“Oh, christ, Charles,” Hawkeye practically falls to his bed. “ _That’s_ what the coughing is?” BJ can practically see the shock turn into self-recrimination behind his best friend’s eyes as the chief surgeon strips off his glove and reaches for the still. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Charles makes a jerkily dismissive gesture, sighing. He sets his feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees, looking at the other two. “Can you blame me,” he says, slowly, “for clinging to as much of what has become normalcy for as long as possible?”

“Yes,” Hawkeye says immediately. “When you find out you’re dying you’re supposed to try to do something about it. Since Donna’s not in camp and you’re not in Tokyo I assume you didn’t,”

“ _Unrequited_ , Pierce, is in every description of the cause of hanahaki I have read.”

“Jesus, have you _asked_ her?”

Softly, the Major says, “I don’t need to. She… hasn’t written me back, and after what I- the contents of my last letter, if she has not replied to it I can take that only as a sign that she thinks far less of me than I do of her.”

Hawkeye rolls his eyes. “Can you blame her? _She_ came to visit you as soon as she could after you got fake hitched in a hotel bar with a lampshade on your head. _You_ haven’t even called to tell her you’re dying.” Charles flinches at his words, but the Captain isn’t done. “Are you more afraid that she would love you, or that she wouldn’t?”

Charles draws himself up, hand clenched on his knee. “Why should I be _afraid_ that she would- love me?”

“Well, I’m no psychiatrist, but it seems to me that if you never ask her you never have to know. No disappointment, no risk.”

Hawkeye throws back his gin. “Coward’s way out,” he says, and Charles’ spine stiffens.

“Gentlemen-” He’s coughing again, and Hawkeye’s expression twists into concern.

“Look, Charles, at least if you ask her, you’ll know.”

Sighing and folding his handkerchief into his palm with a lingering glance at the bloody petals within it, Winchester answers, “Even supposing she did, eventually she would _not_ , and I would be in precisely the same predicament once more, only with a broken heart in place of a lonely one.”

“So you _are_ afraid she’ll love you.”

“And leave you.” BJ spikes the set- it’s kinder than the volleys they usually aim Charles’ way, but probably harder to hear, too.

Hawkeye shrugs, even that gesture somehow expansive. “Well, that’s no more of a risk than the rest of us take. Look at me and- Carlye.”

“The situation is rather different for a Winchester. Divorces- real ones- are simply not done.”

Hawkeye snorts, refilling his drink, and BJ asks, “Who said anything about marriage? Right now she just has to love you.”

“And kiss you,” Hawk adds, handing Charles a glass of gin from the still. “That’s very important.”

Looking into the drink, fingertips brushing his mouth, Charles murmurs, “She has.”

“Has- kissed you?” Hawkeye’s mouth is open. “And you still have hanahaki?”

“Precisely.”

The three sit in silence. Predictably, Pierce bounces back first, on his feet to pace. “Okay, well, maybe she just didn’t love you _yet_ ,”

“Pierce, the last thing I want is your pity.”

“It’s not pity, Charles, it’s hope. You know, the thing with feathers?”

“ _You_ know hope is the thing with feathers- that perches in the soul-”

“That sings the tunes without the words- and never stops at all.” Hawk finishes, declaiming. “Yeah, they printed it on the back of a cereal box when I was nine. Or was it a nude magazine when I was nineteen,”

“ _Anyway_ ,” BJ interrupts.

“Yeah, anyway, what makes you think she wouldn’t?” Hawkeye gestures jerkily. “You know.”

"Because," Charles sighs, and interrupts his thought with a bout of heavy coughing Hawkeye can't believe he let himself believe was just the product of dust. "I am not... well, suffice it to say-" the cough is back, and Hawkeye waits until it passes to ask again,

"What makes you think she wouldn’t love you?"

"You have told me your own opinion of my romantic chances many times over; please don’t allow your determination to save the patient cloud your memory of who the patient _is_ ," Charles gestures to himself and sighs, balling up his handkerchief in his hand.

Hawkeye reaches over for his empty glass, refilling it. "I was just kidding, Chuckles, you know, the thing you do with friends."

"We are not friends,"

"Sure we are," Hawkeye argues back.

Charles rolls his eyes. "You cannot retroactively make friends with a dying man to assuage your conscience, Pierce,"

"You wouldn't be dying if you'd let us help you properly. And anyway, it's not retroactive, I really did think we were friends, even though I downright hate you sometimes, but _obviously_ if you don't _concur_ ,"

BJ raises his voice. "Enough, both of you." He looks between them. "We still need to figure out what to do."

“What do you mean ‘figure out?’ What is there to figure out? The only question is if we call and beg Donna to come here or just mail Charles to Tokyo.”

“Gentlemen-”

“We’ll go the mail route, how much do you think postage is for an army Major?”

“Depends on if we send his ego with him.”

Hawkeye has BJ by the elbow, and his free hand grabs Charles’ collar. The two of them probably look like children getting dragged to the principal's office, despite both being taller than the man doing the dragging. Where BJ is fine with this plan, Charles looks like he’s being taken to meet his maker. BJ has no doubt that he’d be complaining- or struggling- if he weren’t in the middle of a coughing fit that has him stumbling. Getting free of Hawkeye’s grip, BJ takes Charles’ elbow. “Come on,” he says quietly.

“Colonel,” Hawkeye marches them right through the doors to Potter’s office. “We need a Tokyo pass.”

Potter looks up from his paperwork pile and removes his glasses. “No.”

“Colonel, I swear, this isn’t a prank, or anything-”

“No shenanigans,” BJ swears. “Have you heard of hanahaki?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Potter folds his hands, looking up at the three of them. “Bar in Tokyo?”

Charles looks skyward, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Fatal disease. Though I suppose the same could be said for certain bars in Tokyo.”

“Fatal?” Potter barks.

BJ holds up his hands. “Not necessarily.”

“Dad had it and didn’t die of it,”

“I think I’m about half a hand short of where I want to be in this conversation,” Potter gestures for them to take a seat. “Start at the beginning.”

“Do you want to tell him?” BJ looks at Charles, whose arms are crossed as he stares at the ceiling as though this were yet another of the weekly meetings he’s chronically ‘late because I don’t care’ to.

With a sigh, Winchester says, “My cough is caused by a rare disease known as hanahaki, which is fatal, and Pierce and Hunnicutt, believing that they are the masters of death-”

“It’s caused by unrequited love,” Hawkeye interrupts, leaning forward and talking more with his hands than his voice. “And Chuck is in love with Donna Parker,”

Potter snaps his fingers. “The Red Cross gal,”

“That’s the one,”

“So if we send him to Tokyo, and she loves him back, he’ll be fine.” BJ says, trying to keep his voice light and avoid the _and if we don’t send him to Tokyo, or if she doesn’t love him back_ -

Looking between the three of them, Potter heaves a sigh. “Are you three pulling my leg, here? Seems pretty far-fetched, Winchester being literally love-sick.”

“Scout’s honor,” Hawkeye says.

BJ snorts. “You were never a scout. I have a couple articles, Colonel, if you want to read them; it’s a real thing. Pretty serious.”

“You’re telling me that if the Major doesn’t go on a romantic vacation,”

“ _Please_ ,” Charles’ long-suffering tone cuts in. He stands. “I refuse to listen to my health be taken as the subject of mockery. Good evening.”

“Winchester,” Potter barks. “I didn’t dismiss you.”

Charles coughs in reply.

“Colonel,” Hawkeye leans over the desk as the Major holds his handkerchief to his mouth, shudders rocking his large frame. “Really. That cough is only going to get worse and worse, and if we don’t send him now, we’re gonna need a replacement surgeon.”

Pulling a form out of his desk, Potter uncaps a pen. “Alright, Winchester, let’s get you to Tokyo. Go get packed.”

“Sir-”

“That was an order, Major, pack your saddlebags.”


	2. until the day break, and the shadows flee away

Looking up at the Red Cross building, it takes more bravery than he knew he possessed to open the door. “Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester the third.” He introduces himself to the woman at the front desk. His voice sounds like it belongs to a stranger. “Here to see Miss Donna Marie Parker.”

The young woman doesn’t look nearly as impressed as she ought to be, he thinks around the knot in his chest. “I’m afraid she’s already left for the day, sir, can I take a message?”

What would he say? Is it better to leave a note, so that she can avoid him if she wishes? “Yes,” he hears himself saying mechanically, but with no idea what to put in such a note he is forced to stop and consider. “It- it is enough to simply inform her that I was here. I shall-” he’s coughing, can’t help it, covering his mouth and feeling his face flame red with shame. A Winchester, brought low in the sight of a Red Cross receptionist. He’s grateful he never sent that letter to Nori. Once he’s spoken to Donna, he’ll call his sister. Once his fears have been confirmed.

“Sir, are you alright?” The woman is standing from behind the desk, and he waves her away irritably.

“Yes- apologies-” he coughs one final time, into the handkerchief, and tucks it into his breast pocket, managing not to drop any of the tiny petals he can feel caught in it. He only hopes she doesn’t see the blood. “Now, with regards to Miss Parker-”

“What about me?”

He turns, not having heard the door, not having noticed in his coughing fit that his angel if not minister of mercy was just behind him, staring up at him with the same vivacious smile he remembered so well. “Donna,” his voice is weak, whether from the coughing or the surprise he doesn’t know, and his only response is to draw himself up and try again. “Your secretary informed me you’d left for the day,”

She shrugs, still smiling, and his heart has to be setting some kind of speed record. Breaking the sound barrier without the need for an aeroplane; checkmate, Chuck Yeager. “I came back for my jacket. Left it in my office. Didn’t expect to pick you up, too,”

“I- I apologize, if I’ve intruded-”

“No, Chuck, not at all. Hang on, let me get my jacket and I’ll take you to dinner. I know this great sushi place.” Her hand brushes his elbow as she slips by, and he makes a cut-off movement to take her hand, to follow her. His hand flexes as he checks the motion, staying still where she left him.

“Would you like a glass of water, sir?” The receptionist is still eyeing him.

“No,” Charles brushes her off. “Thank you,” he barely remembers to tack on. Suddenly the whole room is registering, the worn green carpeting and shabbily-painted beige walls, the clean but not clean enough desks. He’s standing in a place, a real place, with four walls and a ceiling, not meant to be broken down and moved, and he’s waiting for a person who seems to have set up an equally permanent structure in his heart.

He startles when she says his name.

“My apologies; I was rather lost in contemplation. Shall we?” He offers his elbow, and she takes it, still with that beautiful smile, that smile that makes his heart flutter and break at once. He’d had no idea it was capable of such acrobatics. “Where do you intend to take me, Donna Marie?” He asks when they’re outside, and he wonders if the world felt quite so real and sharp around the edges before he had her hand through his arm.

“This way,” she tugs, and he goes willingly. “So, how long are you in town?”

“I have a three-day pass,” he answers, not ready to tell her it’s medical R and R. “How are you, Donna?”

She waves her free hand breezily, sighing at the same time. “Things are overwhelming. Can barely keep up with the donut and coffee orders! Feels like my first job back home.”

“ _You_ worked in a coffee shop?”

Donna laughs, looking up at him with such a bright, clear gaze that he finds himself thinking of kissing her, thinking of the first time he kissed her. Her lips were so soft, her hands on his hands, on the sides of his face- he’d give anything to kiss her like that again. “No,” She’s saying. “No, I was an assistant at an art gallery my family funded. I just wound up grabbing coffee sometimes,”

“Ah.” It’s an uncreative answer and he knows it. He wants to know everything about her, and his normally silver tongue seems to have turned to lead. “And- and when you worked there, were you able to explore the arts yourself?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely. It was wonderful, to see the new paintings, to help choose the exhibits and arrange galas… it wasn’t a large museum, but then Portland isn’t a large city. And since I got to do some of the choosing I got to have as many Manets as I wanted,”

He smiles. “Manet? Over Degas?”

“Hmm, have I found an opinion?” Donna teases as she tugs him into a hole-in-the-wall that turns out to be one of the places he liked best when he was stationed in Tokyo.

“I cannot believe you know this place,” he says, smiling at her as they’re seated. “I thought I was the only American to have ever found it,”

“Ah, I hate to burst your bubble, but it’s not all that secret. A friend of mine from the hospital, Steve, introduced me to it. Best sushi I’ve ever had- and the sake isn’t bad either,” she casts him an amused look, and he finds he doesn’t mind her teasing in the slightest. He loves her so much, the feeling rising in his chest, filling his heart and lungs, and he coughs, turning his face away as he pulls a fresh handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, hoping no petals fall from his lips in her presence. When he looks back at her, the concern in her open expression, he picks up the thread of conversation as though it had not been interrupted.

“I remember,” he grimaces. “Though nothing like that sake punch,” Charles wants to reach for her hand. But she never answered his letters, and he can’t find it in himself to ask _why not_ yet, not when they’ve settled in beside one another like the sea and the sand.

Donna’s laugh is his favorite sound in the world. He could break every record he owns and be satisfied, if he could make her laugh. “No,” she says. “I don’t imagine so. But- _you_ are trying to get out of telling me about your Manet versus Degas opinion.”

“Degas’ brush strokes are lighter. Much more suited to the term ‘Impressionist’ and a far better example of that school.”

“Mm, but Degas called himself a Realist, _and_ you’re assuming I was putting on Impressionist exhibits. I just like Manet. Anyway, are you sure you don’t just like Degas because he was more conservative than Manet?”

“The Salon politicking-”

Donna laughs. “You do. What’s your favorite Degas painting?”

It is impossible not to stare at her, and Charles can only hope he does not look too disgustingly besotted. “In the Realist or Impressionist style?”

“You _do_ have opinions here, hm? Alright, Impressionist. To better compare with Manet.”

“Dancers. 1878. Aside from the brushwork, the composition is rather striking, and I enjoy the whimsical nature of his coloration.”

Donna’s eyebrows go up, and Charles chokes on something- it could be a flower petal, but he thinks it’s his tongue. She is so lovely, bella donna, and he is watching her hands as she sets her face in them, smiling at him. “ _Whimsical_?”

“Indeed. And yours?”

She looks coquettish when she says, “Bain du matin, 1883,”

Not as easily scandalized as she seems to think he will be, Charles rolls his eyes. “That’s a favorite of Honoria’s as well.”

“Is it really?” Donna asks, and then their server arrives, and they lose the thread of the conversation. He chokes back a coughing fit, and she gives him a strange look. He deflects by proposing a toast, holding up his glass of the sake she chose.

“To Manet,”

Smiling, Donna clinks her glass to his.

It nearly hurts just to look at her, and they’re drinking again- Charles has found himself with his elbow on the table and his shirt collar undone before he knows it, leaning toward her, drawn in by the light that seems to have its source in her eyes. “I never- I never used to get drunk so often,” she’s saying, laughing, her fingers light on the side of his face, and it’s taking everything he has not to turn his face into her hand and beg her to allow him to keep her, to keep this _feeling_. Sitting with her hardly feels real, and it’s a moment he could live in.

“Nor did I,” he says instead, gesturing vaguely with his empty sake glass. “I suppose it’s all the war,”

That makes her sigh, and he’s sorry he’s said it, wanting her laughter back. “I suppose you’re right, Chuck, the war would tend to do it.” They’re quiet a moment, nothing to say over the echo of shelling they can both hear. “Chuck… how come you never wrote me back?”

“ _What_? My dear, I wrote you twice. I- I thought it was you who didn’t reply,”

Donna’s eyes widen the slightest bit, and then she smiles, wide and bright like a river reflecting the sun. “No, I never got them. Just that first one you wrote.”

“Oh,” he has to laugh, relieved, breathless with it- and his coughing starts, doubling him over. His hand is braced on the table, the other fumbling for his handkerchief as he ducks his face, and he drops petals as he goes.

“Darling, are you all right?” Donna leans over the table, her hand on his hand where it’s clutching the table so tightly the wood is creaking in protest.

He tries not to be ashamed, but there’s nothing he can do. Something in his chest has given way, and with it whatever was holding back the tide of emotion seems to have been holding back the coughing as well, because he cannot stop now that he has started.

The petals hurt as they come up, but it’s nothing to the thought that once he tells her how he feels, he’ll never see her again. “I- no- my apologies,” he hides the petals in his handkerchief, clearing his throat, fighting to get his breath back. Hates how vulnerable he feels, how weak he must look to her.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Donna says. He follows her, and once they’re in the street, under the cherry blossoms, she stops walking, one hand on his upper arm. It feels as though it’s burning through his shirt. “That sounded like a pretty bad cough, Chuck, are you alright?”

“I-” he’s tempted to lie, to ask to see her again and again until he has to go back to the unit. Then he thinks of desertion, wonders if it would be so bad to abandon his post and stay in Tokyo, look at her every day until the day he doesn’t look at anything anymore.

Her eyes are fixed on his face, and it’s strange to see concern replace her normally relaxed expression. Concern for _him_ , no less. It would be dishonorable, he thinks, to lie to such a face.

“Donna... I have hanahaki. Do you know what that is?”

She shakes her head, both her hands gripping his forearms tightly. “I don’t think I’m gonna like the explanation, am I.”

“Hanahaki is… rather difficult to explain. It is a very rare disorder, caused by- by unrequited feelings of affection. It sounds ridiculous, but the experience thus far has been quite serious.”

Her eyes are full of something he can’t read, but when she reaches for his face again he gives in to the urge to tip his jaw into her hand, eyes closing, and he kisses the heel of her hand softly. As softly as he’s ever done anything before. “In short, flowers begin to grow in the lungs of the afflicted, impacting the ability to breathe, and the only known cure is the return of those feelings of affection.” She’s still just looking at him, and he has no idea what she’s thinking but he knows that if he lets this momentum go he’ll never pick it up again. So he says, “Donna, I am in love with you.”

“Since _when_?”

“I- don’t know. One day I awoke, and… began to cough. I suppose I would have tried to ignore it forever, if not for the disease.”

Donna rolls her eyes. “Well, thank god for the evolution of a disease that makes you face your fears,”

“Why,” Charles sighs heavily, looking skyward, “Does everyone assume I am afraid?”

Donna pats his chest, sympathy half-real. “I just know how I’d feel.”

“What?” Charles covers her hand with his, squeezing softly, mindlessly trying to keep her touching him.

“If I thought you hadn’t answered my letters, and I was in love with you. I wouldn’t know what to do- whether I ought to write again, or try to come see you, or just… leave you alone.”

He thinks the roses must be trying to grow fast enough to cover a castle, the way his lungs seize with that _if_ I was in love with you. Stepping back, he turns away, coughing again and hiding his face. The coughs are ragged, overlapping one another like waves washing onto shore as the tide comes in, further and further up each time. It takes him time to fight them down enough to breathe. There’s a dampness in his eyes- from the coughing, no doubt. He folds his handkerchief and brushes a hand over his eyes before he turns back to her with as deep a breath as he is capable of taking. “I- I apologize. I should have taken the latter option.”

“No- _Charles_ ,” Donna steps closer, closing the gap he’d made between them. “I meant- I know how you feel. I shouldn’t have said if. I was doing the same thing, wondering if your not writing me back meant you wanted me to leave you alone. I’m just a lowly west-coaster, after all. But I love you too.”

Staring at her is probably not the right answer, but when he opens his mouth the only thing that comes out is an echo of her- “When did-”

“‘I was in the middle before I knew I had begun,’” Donna quotes, her grin lopsided, and Charles reaches out hesitantly to brush the tips of his fingers over a freckle close to her hairline. “But I love you. I love you.”

“Oh. Donna…” He swallows thickly, stepping closer. “May I kiss you?”

She beams up at him, her hands running up his arms. “Please do, Chuck.”

He expected to feel something painful, in his lungs at least, if he ever got to kiss her again, but this feels like the first spring sunshine on his face after a Massachusetts winter with sixty inches of snow. “Donna…” he whispers her name against her lips. “My angel, thank you,”

“Why are you thanking me, Chuck?” She bumps her nose against his.

“For… everything.”

She grins, so close to him, and he can’t but smile back. “Darling…” her hands move from his shoulders to cup his face. “I haven’t given you _everything_ yet.”

“I-” His heart is crashing in his ears, feels like it’s cascading through his chest. He thought he’d have more time, between hearing that she loved him and realizing that it was no longer true. This is too immediate, his lungs are nearly overrun and he cannot take the strain of fear constricting around them. He wants to tell her that he wants her, all of her, but he doesn’t want the kind of _everything_ her voice is suggesting, never has- and doesn’t want to disappoint her. Desperately wants to be good enough. “Donna,”

But what she says next, his angel, is, “I want to take you dancing, please. I know this wonderful spot, come on,” and she’s tugging at his hand, and he’s going.

They dance, and he can’t take his eyes off her.

Her hand in his hand, his other hand on her waist. Hers should be on his shoulder, but she’s resting it on his chest, and her eyes sparkle. “If eyes are indeed windows to the soul,” he murmurs under the music, when she is close enough to hear, “your soul must be composed of the same fire as stars, to make your eyes shine so.”

Donna smiles. “‘Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt thou the sun doth move,’”

“Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,’” Charles finishes the quote, and realizes that he hasn’t coughed since she kissed him. He wonders if he’ll start again immediately when she realizes what is wrong with him, when her love flickers out like a red dwarf fading, or if he’ll have to endure another slow agonizing month of regrowth. There is not a wealth of literature regarding hanahaki, and even less on the subject of recovered patients. Perhaps he can publish an article. Initial stages, remission, relapse. Hunnicutt would doubtlessly relish the opportunity to be first-credited, and he'd get it, if his co-author was posthumous.

“What are you thinking about?”

Charles spins her. “Hanahaki.”

Donna’s hand tightens on his. “Tell me more about it.”

“What would you like to know, my dear?”

She shrugs. “I- I don’t know. I guess it’s just strange to think that there’s a disease out there that’s caused by love.”

Making an arch sound of agreement, Charles says, “Had I not treated a case in Tokyo, I would doubtlessly have been in the same position after having contracted it myself. Unfortunately, there is not a wealth of research nor information readily available. More folk stories than medical fact.”

“The way you say folk stories makes me think you didn’t _really_ believe in it,”

He sighs. “I suppose… seeing it and experiencing it are two very different things, and in the case I treated the woman refused to speak of her feelings. I thought she was foolish, irresponsible, that she wasn’t making the proper effort- and then I very nearly repeated her mistake.” They’re still swaying slowly, speaking to one another as though they’re the only people in the dance hall, perhaps in the world.

“Why?” Donna asks, looking up at him with eyebrows drawn together. “Why were you afraid?”

_I still am _. Charles thinks, looking back at her, helpless. “I wanted… very badly, my dear, to believe that you would return my feelings, but- I am aware that I am not precisely relationship material.”__

__Donna laughs. “ _How_ can you think that?”_ _

__“I don’t…” He swallows thickly, thinking of the flowers in his lungs. They may well start to grow again with the next thing she says, and he has to cling desperately to this final moment, dancing with her, believing he could be loved. “There are parts of romantic relationships, Donna, I have never wanted or enjoyed, and- and most people seem to find it- not worth pursuing a relationship without those components.”_ _

__“I do,” Donna tells him. “Find it worth it. Pursuing any relationship with you is worth it.”_ _

__Charles closes his eyes. “You don’t understand. I don’t- ah-” He hasn’t said it aloud in years, no cause to have done so, and the last person he’d told had looked at him without understanding, without compassion. He forces himself to look at his angel. “I don’t- well, Donna, I may be a wonderful dancer on my feet, but I don’t- dance in the dark.”_ _

__“Oh, darling, I already knew that. You told me the night we met.” Donna smiles at a memory. “You were up in arms about it. Not that you weren’t about everything. It was almost amazing to hear your voice _quiet_ when I did.”_ _

__Charles is staring at her. “You… knew?”_ _

__Donna’s expression falls back into earnest seriousness. “I did, Charles, and please don’t- don’t look like that. What’s the matter?”_ _

__“I-” he draws a breath that shakes. It’s deeper than his breaths have been for weeks. “Nothing.”_ _

__“I love you, please don’t tell me it’s nothing. If it makes you look like that.”_ _

__“You love me,” Charles repeats, stupidly. “Despite-”_ _

__Donna seems to understand. “Oh, Charles,” her hand cups his face, and he loves that gesture, that feeling. He tilts his face into the touch. “Yes, I love you. For exactly who you are.” It seems surreal, like he’s dreaming the tiny dance hall and the angel in his arms. “I keep forgetting,” she continues, “that you don’t remember the night we met. I can’t forget a single second.”_ _

__“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I _wish_ -”_ _

__“Shh,” she’s laughing when she breaks the steps of their dance to rise on her toes and kiss him. “It’s kind of nice, actually, to know that you’re not sitting around embarrassed about some of the things you did, or feeling like you have to be that person all the time. I like you like this, too, and the way you were in camp- I’m collecting parts of your personality. I love them all, by the way. All I meant was that sometimes I forget that I know things about you- and I think you know things about me- that you don’t _know_ ,” she shrugs. “You and I ran around that party- hell, around the whole _city_ \- with your hands on me and mine on you and you talked a big talk about it. Calling me your angel,” she smiles, and love truly is _light from heaven, a spark of that immortal fire with angels shared_. “And when we were alone I asked you what was going on with that performance. I swear I could have knocked you over with a feather. _Overcompensating_. Well, me too, sometimes.”_ _

___Overcompensating_. Yes, he did tend to, didn’t he? How strange that she should have noticed. And how- wonderful. It feels wonderful, to be known. To be seen, and loved. “Donna,” he licks his lips. “I cannot believe how clearly you see me, my dear. And I… wish to show you more of me. And to see more of you, if you are willing to allow me to look clearly upon your radiance.”_ _

__“Charles, I want to be so clear with you I’m _transparent_.” She leans up to kiss him again, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him close. “I want to tell you something else I told you that night. About five minutes later. I know you don’t horizontal madison with anyone, and I’m never going to expect you to- and I want you to know that I’ve danced both parts. You know what I mean?”_ _

__The way Pierce does, he imagines, and Hunnicutt. “I am acquainted with two doctors who occasionally play nurse, my dear, and if what you’re implying is the same-”_ _

__She smiles. “I met your lovely tent-mates, and what I’m implying is just about like that. Only I don’t like to share the way Mrs. Hunnicutt does,” her nails scrape teasingly across the back of his neck. “Promise to be all mine?”_ _

__Charles blinks. “I- yes, Donna, I promise,” he’s tripping over his words in precisely the way he trips over the hymns when they’re all forced into Mulcahy’s canvass cathedral when a general visits. He is unaccustomed to devotionals, but hers is one heart he holds sacred._ _

__“Good,” She smiles. “Can I be all yours, too?”_ _

__He gives up on dancing, wrapping his arms around her, holding her as close as he can. “Please.” A prayer, whispered in the ear of his angel, and she turns her face to kiss him._ _

__When their kiss breaks, she murmurs quietly, “So, your hanahaki- have I cured you?”_ _

_As surely as though you’d laid your hands on me at sunset, like Christ the Redeemer,_ he thinks, the feeling in his chest Biblical in magnitude. “You have indeed, my angel. I love you,” 

“I love you too, Charles,” Donna smiles and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> title and chapter titles from chapter 2 of the song of solomon


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